Smells Texas

somewhere between baltimore and philadelphia, a graffitied wall by the tracks says smells texas.  the acela train zips by and the other lines on the wall elude me.  what did the artist—for that is what graffiti kids call themselves these days—mean?  that that joint reeks like a cattle layover pen just like in texas?  two seats ahead of me, a lady with a dirty tan and blond hair with dark roots showing stands up as if irate with something and retrieves from the overhead baggage bin a hairy sweater that looks like a well-worn costume from cats.  somewhere beyond the quiet car, a baby’s fussing faintly intrudes. i find it hard to concentrate on my book, a collection of poems by a lesser known japanese zen master.  beside me, a college boy who smells of the sun is munching on chips so slowly almost like a fool.